


Risen

by multishep



Series: The Returned [4]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F, katariven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-07-15 22:05:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7240300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multishep/pseuds/multishep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a decade-long exile, Riven returns with plans for Noxus and help she can't trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> Noxus empire with a medieval twist (think high middle ages)

Strength and power. They meant everything and more to the people of Noxus. Those who had it held titles to match, and those who didn't... Well, they weren't worth remembering.

The empire boasted many adept warriors, but among the handful of generals and other elite agents of High Command, only one title held power above all.

The Grand General.

A title bestowed only to the worthiest Noxian, the grand general was a leader of leaders and a warrior among men. An exalted champion who possessed the most cunning of minds.

Countless lifetimes ago, Grand General Boram Darkwill ascended the throne with unrivalled strength. For as long as he reigned, Noxus had never seen more glorious days. As popular and as cautious as he was, though, it was a cowardly assassination that brought a sour end to his long rule.

His son, Keiran Darkwill, with strength to match his late father's, had an ability -- a talent, even -- to lead. Support for his succession amassed among the people just shortly after Boram's death. The man was as proficient in tongue as he was in battle. Keiran's ascension was as sure as the sunset.

That is, until Jericho Swain.

Jericho Swain was a man of all trades. His strength was thought to exceed Boram's by far, and with only a speech or two here and there, the people accepted him with equal, if not more, content as they did Keiran. But words and muscle weren't all it took for him to secure the throne. There was his cunning... Damn his cunning.

He could count the number of people who knew of his plot to seize power on one hand and still have fingers left over. It wasn't a secret -- well, not anymore -- but rather, such meticulous plans would've been wasted on the peoples' simple minds. His victory and Keiran's death, what was believed to have secured his reign, was just another chore to cross off his 'to-do' list.

With the Darkwills deep in the dirt, very few believed Jericho Swain's reign would end during their lifetime, or even the next... They were the very same people who believed Fury Company to be a thing of the long forgotten past.

The 'Dark Horse' is what they called her. To the old, she was a remnant of the Conquering. To the young, she was a hero out of legend, returned from the grave to lead Noxus back into its glory days. To those who once loved her, she was still just a memory.

Clad in plain, black leathers underneath a thick, heavy robe to match, Riven sat atop her throne, taking in the empty room around her. Just steps from the dais was the very spot where she'd knelt, nearly ten years ago, and received the orders to march into certain death. Of course, Darkwill's intentions with Zaun were unknown to her then.

Gifted with a divine weapon, an enchanted blade forged of rare obsidian from the age of dragons, she was quite literally Noxus' knight in shining armour. So young, naive, and eager to serve.

Right then, though, as the new ruler of Noxus, she didn't feel a damn thing.

"Grand General Riven," she murmured to herself, getting a feel for it on her tongue. "It's going to take some getting used to."

The last thing she expected was an answer, but it was what she got anyway. Her time alone came to an end when a voice echoed from the silence and nearly made her flinch.

"Well," it said.

Riven didn't turn, didn't move, even when a cold hand materialized on her shoulder and snaked across her collar bone to cup her cheek. Whether it was surprise or fear that paralyzed her this time, she couldn't say.

"Then you'd better do it fast, darling."

And just as quickly as it had manifested, the hand was gone.

Riven waited patiently for her guest to reappear, but called out moments later when they didn't.

"LeBlanc."

It was hardly a shout, but it might as well have been one. Her voice, bending through the colonnades and bouncing off of walls, could be heard all around the room. Then, once again, she felt a cold, weighted presence. This time on her thigh. Riven sighed and swept her appreciation of fine Noxian architecture to the background of her thoughts.

"Come now, darling, no need to be unfamiliar. Emilie will do."

When _Emilie_ dispelled her cloaking magic, Riven was all but being straddled. Even with the woman dressed more appropriately than usual, thank the weather, it was difficult to banish the need that the mage so effortlessly made her feel. Still, she didn't move a muscle, save the ones that worked her mouth.

"And to what do I owe this displeasure?" she asked. Out the corner of her eye she could see LeBlanc feign hurt.

When the mage spoke, it was in her playful tone, but Riven could sense the warning behind her words.

"Careful now," she sang, tracing two fingers along Riven's jaw line before forcing her eyes to meet with a sharp twist of her chin. "Don't forget who it was that put you here."

It took all Riven had not to avert her gaze, to look at anything but the eyes that mirrored the fires of hell itself. In the end, even her will didn't amount to much. Riven swallowed and nodded the smallest of nods. Fortunately, it was enough for the smile to return to LeBlanc's face.

Finally, the mage vacated her lap and she breathed a bit easier for it. She rubbed her chin, feeling the sting of where nails had dug into her skin.

Riven didn't forget. How could she possibly? Whatever ploy the matron of the Black Rose had concocted to secure Swain's tenure, it was nowhere near as elaborate as the one she used to dethrone him. LeBlanc could pull one scheme after another out of her sleeves, each one more elaborate than the last.

It could just as easily be LeBlanc's lithe form on the throne. Luckily, the mage was content with being just a myth, a name whispered from daring lips to inquisitive ears in the empire's shadier corners.

Riven didn't think about how LeBlanc would dethrone her should she feel the need to.

"Did you need something?" Riven rephrased.

LeBlanc stood before her, as still as stone, but Riven could swear she saw something flash in the mage's eyes. It was never a good sign.

"Actually, yes," LeBlanc answered, lips curved into a beautiful, yet unsettling, smile.

"What could the matron of the Black Rose possibly need that she can't just take for herself?" Though she was quite aware of her loose tongue, Riven hadn't the energy to restrain words.

"My dear, some things can only be given," LeBlanc said, easing herself onto the wide stone slab that served as an arm rest.

Displaced, Riven automatically let her hand rest against the curve of the mage's back. One again LeBlanc forced their eyes to meet. With two fingers tucked under her chin, she tilted, gently this time, until their lips hovered just a breath away.

Like a puppet on strings, Riven was compelled to close the gap between them. Tingles surged through her body underneath where LeBlanc was tracing her skin. Even her heart thumped so hard she feared it would break out of her chest. Unclear motives or not, the woman was magnetic.

How good it was to finally feel again.

Riven had no will in her to fight the advance this time, and instead, surged forward to kiss the mage. LeBlanc playfully resisted at first, but eventually gave Riven and her commanding desire free reign.

The feel of LeBlanc's grin as she kissed her did not go unnoticed, and neither did the mocking laughter that rumbled deep in her throat. Even when she'd won, Riven knew she'd lost.

With neither even close to being satisfied, LeBlanc pulled away, laughing freely as she untangled her fingers from Riven's silver locks.

"Thirsty, aren't we?" she tutted.

Riven ignored the question, straightening herself and frowning as she crudely wiped the taste of the deceiver from her lips with her sleeve.

"Why did you help me?" she asked. It was a question she'd been demanding an answer to since the moment they'd met. And like any other day, she expected and received another cryptic answer.

"Your dreams for Noxus intrigue me."

"And Swain?" she pressed. "You stood behind him did you not?"

LeBlanc smiled. "I did," she said proudly. "It's true I didn't need you," she admitted. "Your dreams could've easily been realized by his actions. All I had to do was say the word."

The use of past tense was a huge relief to Riven's ears, but she didn't breathe any easier for it. "So then what changed?"

LeBlanc licked her still-moist lips. "He bored me," she replied, simply, complimenting the answer with a shrug.

"Because he listened?" Riven growled.

"Precisely! Look," she continued before Riven's face could stiffen into a permanent glare, "Someone who's lived as long as I have is entitled to a little fun. And what's the fun in keeping a dog on a short leash?"

Riven shoved herself to her feet, stepping off the dais before whirling around to face the throne that was now solely occupied by LeBlanc.

"I am not a dog," she roared. "And I am certainly not yours."

Everything she did and said had LeBlanc looking like the pieces she'd laid out were falling meticulously into place. Riven was just another pawn in one of her games, and she didn't know any of the rules. What she wouldn't give to wipe that smirk off LeBlanc's face.

"Swain wanted power, but he lacked ambition," the mage explained. "Of course, having such lackluster goals makes one easy to predict. But you," she paused, eyeing Riven from top to bottom, "what you want isn't so easily attainable. I never know what to expect next from you."

Before Riven could think of a reply, LeBlanc stood, letting out a little yawn as if she'd had a long and exhausting day.

"Someone's here to see you. Now if you'll excuse me, Grand General," she said with a wink, "you've got some work to do."

"Don't wait up."

LeBlanc excused herself with a mocking little bow, then dissipated into a thin cloud of smoke.

Riven yearned for the day the mage would learn to use a door, but for now she'd have to endure the smoke and mirrors. Groaning internally, she resumed her throne, looking more regal than she felt, before the herald reached the hall.

"Grand General," the plainly clad messenger greeted, bowing low, once he reached the dais. "The Privy Council is fully assembled and awaiting your presence in the Great Hall, sir."

"My thanks," she responded curtly. "You may go," she added when the soldier hesitated at the implied dismissal. She was aware his job description entailed more than just simply delivering messages, and she'd been meaning to change that, but as the sovereign of _Noxus_ , having to be escorted everywhere was not only aggravating, but also beyond shameful.

Sadly, the Kingsguard that Boram had implemented to appease his paranoia carried through the ages, and his assassination only caused High Command to ensure it remained.

But there was only one assassin capable of bringing her demise, and Riven was sure she was safe for the time being.

The guard bowed deeply again and returned to whatever other duties he was responsible for.

Alone and without the unwanted company of soldiers, who would more likely get in her way than save her from anything, Riven made her way to the Great Hall. There, she was greeted with a full table of Noxian elites engaged in idle chatter that immediately subsided upon her entrance.

"My apologies," she said, taking her seat at the far end of the table. She was answered with polite nods from a few. "I understand there's a lot to talk about, so where shall we begin?"

The man on her left cleared his throat, seizing her attention. He wasn't the oldest member of the Council, but he was beyond merely greying. Judging by the loose fit of his robes, she reckoned it'd been a while since he'd had need to stretch his muscles.

"Yes, my Lord Chancellor?" she acknowledged him, trying her best to wrestle her brows out of their permanent frown.

"It's come to my attention that you intend to end our diplomatic ties with Zaun," he accused.

Murmurs erupted around the room,  and Riven silenced them with a raised hand, all without breaking eye contact with the man who sparked the outrage.

"Chemical warfare is not the Noxian way. It is cowardly, and a disgrace," she said loudly, putting her lungs behind every word. Her audience was taken slightly aback by the outburst, but she continued before the old man could find room to argue. "You served as grandmaster during Boram's time, did you not?" she asked. "Surely you of all people could see how true my words ring."

Riven's lips twitched and she fought to keep from smirking victoriously when the chancellor nodded without any accompanying words. She never had a knack for diplomacy, and never had any reason to be until now. She led with might of will and strength to equal, action to show for what her lack of words cannot. She didn't need bribes or faked politeness to appease greedy old men who wouldn't live long enough to see the future she was fighting for.

"Anything else, Chancellor?" she asked, annoyed. Much to Riven's chagrin, affairs with Zaun wasn't all the man had to feed her ears.

"In addition to cutting ties with Zaun, you wish to, instead, to ally us with the eastern pacifists?" he stated, voice laced with disgust.

"Those _pacifists_ ," Riven retorted, rounding on him and, once again, calming the disapproving murmurs of the others present, "caused Noxus to lose more numbers in a single campaign than you've seen  fall in your whole life time. _Before_ you begged Zaun's intervention against them, if I may add."

"We didn't--"

"You haven't seen what I have, Chancellor," Riven spat. "The world is so much more than what exists inside our city walls. If we seek to conquer this world, we'd become rulers of nothing, because there will be nothing left to rule."

She paused, meeting the eyes of everyone at the table, one by one, demanding undivided attention. "This empire is on the verge of collapse. It is not Ionia's doing. It is not Demacia's doing. It is our own doing. The senseless fighting ends today."

"What you speak of is weakness!" boomed a voice from the other end of the lengthy table.

She recognized the speaker as the grandmaster. "Is it, now?" Riven challenged.

"To play nice with our neighbours; that is what you're asking of us. You bid us cut ties with our allies to drink tea with our enemies!"

"I bid you stop needlessly wasting lives fighting a war we cannot win!" she corrected him. "How strong will Noxus be when our numbers fall to that which cannot even fight off the smallest of threats?" she asked loud enough to make his complaint seem like a mere whisper.

"It won't," the general growled.

"Oh, but it has!" Riven barked back. She imagined LeBlanc listening in every shadow and dark corner of the room and steeled her resolve to show her council its place.

Not easily attainable, indeed.

"They're either with us or they're against us. When our country becomes kindling for the fires of war, they will be the ones to aid us. To fight in our empire's name. Is that not strength?"

The grandmaster rolled his eyes. "Such foolhardy ideas, girl."

Riven could've heard a pin drop in the deadly silence that followed if it weren't for the ringing in her ears.

"Do not belittle me, you old fool!" she growled through her teeth. "It was under your leadership that we marched into more ambushes than you can count, lost more soldiers than you can fathom. Tell me, Grandmaster, just how glorious your days have been since."

"There is truth to her words," joined another voice. Riven turned and found herself face to face the last man she'd expected to make her job any less difficult.

"General Darius," she acknowledged with a nod. He didn't extend her the same courtesy, but to his merit, lions weren't tamed in one day.

"Demacia will never stop knocking at our gates, and we will always answer with blood and arms," he said.

Riven hummed in agreement, unsure of where Darius was going.

"But it is a war we are slowly losing, a war we should've won long ago if not for our scattered army. Noxus will have blood, but it will no longer be our own. I will hold you to your promise, Grand General. Should this empire show any sign of further crumbling, we will be seeking a new Grand General," he finished.

Riven acknowledged the threat wordlessly. Her shoulders were squared, her chin held high, but between Darius' words and his towering presence, she just felt so damn _small_.

"You are considering the impossible, General," she reassured him, hoping to sound more confident than she was.

The idea of Darius on the throne was oddly fitting and shot chills down her spine. No doubt he could fill her seat, literally as well as figuratively. Perhaps he could even do a better job, but for once Riven was glad the matron of the Black Rose had taken a liking to her. The thought of losing her greatest ally to a man who already had the ears of High Command was unsettling.

"Now," she said before anyone else could interject, "with foreign matters out of the way..."

"Ah, yes," said another new voice, this time belonging to a woman. Riven recognized the speaker as the justiciar. The elderly woman had the more friendlier face of those who resided on her council. The lines that time carved in her face were almost maternal.

Riven had to remind herself that this very same woman had never once condemned a person to death without a grin on her face.

"What do you have for us, my Lady Justiciar?" Riven asked.

Sure enough, her teeth-showing smile was there when she announced that the Crimson Elite, High Command's public task force, had rounded up Swain's loyal supporters who refused to acknowledge her as their new sovereign.

She could see Darius' face twist in rage, a reminder that he was Swain's former right hand.

"What are their sentences?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"The loyalists are to be put to the axe for treason," the justiciar almost sang.

Riven had to stifle a laugh. She'd learned long ago that loyalty was just as fleeting as the weather. True loyalty was difficult to find and a sight for sore eyes when she did find it. If she sought to execute all those without unwavering loyalty, she wouldn't have a kingdom left to rule, let alone an empire.

"Absolve them of all charges, my lady," she ordered before Darius could put the elderly woman to his personal axe. "If they do come for me and succeed in taking my life, I wouldn't be worthy of my title."

The justiciar frowned, perhaps for the first time in her life judging by how _unnatural --_ and slightly terrifying -- the expression looked, but didn't press the need for execution any further.

Still, Riven should've known better than to think the issue was put to rest.

"They cannot go unpunished, Grand General," the justiciar argued. "There are gentry and nobles among them. An example needs to be made."

"What do you propose, then?" Riven continued to humour the old woman, but her patience was wearing thin. Had she the misfortune to appear before this woman just months ago, it would be _her_ head on the chopping block.

"Strip them of their wealth and titles, at the very least."

She noticed her treasurer's eyes light up at the mention of adding to the royal coffer -- and undoubtedly his own as well -- and made a mental note to make some changes to her council members as soon as it was convenient to do so.

"Very well," she agreed. It wasn't the worst punishment one could get in Noxus.

She thought the matter over when she felt a chilling presence at her backside between the small space that separated her and the chair. She could've guessed, if the teasing touches beneath her robe were any indication, but was saved the trouble when LeBlanc whispered to her, and only her.

She could only make out every other word through the chatter, but it was enough.

"House Du Couteau was among them?!" she asked the justiciar with more concern than she should've made known.

"Ah, yes, but how did you--"

Riven stood, nearly toppling her chair in the process, and slammed her fist against the polished wooden tabletop.

"You're telling me to believe that House Du Couteau is loyal to _Swain_?!" she scoffed. "The very man who took Marcus Du Couteau's -- their _father's_ \-- whereabouts to his grave?"

"No," the justiciar replied, impressively calm. "Not loyal to Swain, but not loyal to you, either."

"This is tyranny! I will not have people stripped or executed on a whim," she shouted, throat sore from having done so all day.

She was... angry. It was a familiar feeling, one she hadn't felt in a long, long time. Of course, the circumstances were far from ideal, but regardless, it was a feeling nonetheless.

It was good to feel again.

"That is not the Noxian way, Grand General," the treasurer interjected.

"Neither is greed, treasurer," Riven barked back. "War lurks beyond our borders and yet here you are, calling for our own blood to be shed. If tyranny is what you want, Lady Justiciar," she said returning her attention to the old woman, "then it is what you will have. _I_ am the Grand General, _your_ sovereign emperor, and you are my advisors. You will do as I say when I say it or the next axe to fall will fall upon _your_ neck. Are we understood?" she asked her seething councillors.

They bowed their heads.

"Good."

Ignoring LeBlanc's ethereal chuckles, Riven stood and dusted off her robe, calling an early end to their session before she could make good on her promise. "I believe it best we continue this meeting another time. If that is all that requires our urgent attention, my lords and ladies, I bid you all a good night."

She didn't have to wait long for the hall to empty. Watching the lot of them scurry out of her sight was... satisfying. Some couldn't wait to get out of her line of fire, while others, like Darius, had much better things to do than play politics with old fools. She was beginning to understand LeBlanc's taste for games.

Finally alone, Riven slipped into the private passageway hidden inconspicuously behind one of several statues that lined the hall. There, she followed the markings she'd carved to keep herself from getting lost in the underground maze.

She cursed the fact that the passages were confined to the palace and didn't extend to the rest of the city.  However, the sections she'd already mapped out were able to take her as far as the stables, which was good enough for all her intents and purposes.

The stable boy nearly jumped out of his skin when Riven squeezed herself out of a trap door inside an empty stable. She didn't give him time to collect his wits before ordering him to ready a horse. He fumbled at first, likely out of nervousness in her presence, so she stepped outside to survey the moonlit evening sky and left him to his task.

Within a few short breaths, he appeared with her saddled black-as-night companion, and handed her the reins. Riven didn't miss the relieved grin he gave her when she thanked him and mounted her horse.

She wished all of Noxus could smile at her like that.

Drawing her hood over her face, she raced through an unmarked trail under cover of the forest's shadows, rather than taking the paved road that wound down the low hill on which the palace sat. Though it'd been nearly ten years since she'd last ridden a horse, she was able to make her way to her destination almost effortlessly. There was nothing her practiced sea legs couldn't handle.

Riven dismounted at the gates, straightening her wind-ruffled cloak. The soles of her boots nearly disappeared into muddied, overgrown grass the instant her feet hit the ground, but she didn't have time to notice, as she was greeted with the husk of the closest thing she'd had to a home.

The Du Couteau mansion looked like something out of a nightmare. Vines held the house in a messy chokehold and the once-pearly white stone foundation was caked an ashen gray.

The place was colourless.

She lost her footing on a charred stump while searching for a place to secure her horse. The trees that once stood on the property looked like they'd had more than their fare share of lightning strikes and practice swords, and the only things to greet her in the garden were bottom halves of statues that should've stood many heads taller than her.

With careful steps and a heavy heart, she made her way down the uneven path. Each footfall counted her sleepless nights, plagued by dreams of war, since she'd last been home. They counted the scars on her back, the friends she'd lost, and the lives she'd taken along the way. She could circle the earth and it wouldn't be enough.

She let sorrow take hold, let herself _feel_ for a little while longer, not realizing she'd lowered her guard until, just feet away from the entrance, someone called out from behind.

Riven knew there was a blade aimed at her throat before she even turned.

Hands raised in surrender, she regretted leaving her chambers this morning unarmed.

"Hello, Kat," she greeted calmly, gambling with the fact that if the assassin wanted her dead, she would've killed her already.

Katarina Du Couteau answered with a twitch of her blade that immediately caused blood to trickle from the underside of her chin.

At first glance, Katarina didn't look a day older than she did the day Riven left. But when the clouds parted and the moon could cast enough light for Riven to make out the details on her face, all she could read was hate, fury, and pain.

There was so much pain.

"I asked you a question," Katarina repeated.

Riven gasped her answer, feeling a sharp sting under her chin with every syllable. "I'm here to see you."

Slowly, she wrapped her fingers around the sharp dagger and guided it away enough to look Katarina in the eyes. This time, all she saw was hurt.

Something wet slid down her cheek, then.

How awful it was to feel again.


	2. Dead

Katarina waited patiently while Riven grasped for emotions and stumbled for words. Though Katarina's face betrayed no emotion, there was no longer a dagger at her throat, and it was enough for Riven.

“It’s been a while,” Riven whispered so softly her words were nearly lost in the wind. Even though she’d been home for months, between her responsibilities to the throne and 'business' with LeBlanc, she didn’t have the time to seek out her old friend.

Katarina narrowed her eyes but didn’t spare the Grand General an answer.

“Can we talk?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Katarina replied almost tiredly.

Taken aback by how curt and devoid of anger the assassin’s words were, Riven felt her stomach twist into a knot. She expected Katarina to be furious. Perhaps even a bit murderous. Sure, she did have a dagger poised at her throat just moments ago, but anyone who knew the Du Couteau would also know that anyone lacking enough sense to show up on her doorstep uninvited in the middle of the night should expect the same treatment.

She could shout and throw a few hooks. Hurl some knives, even. Anything to show she still _cared_. But she was uncharacteristically patient and it hurt Riven more than a spear through her gut.

“You’re not angry?” Riven asked lamely.

She had played out their encounter in her head nearly every night since the day she decided to return and many nights before then. She had come prepared—or so she’d thought. She came with all the cards in her hand, but never once did she consider the possibility that Katarina could and would refuse to play. Katarina no longer cared.

“What would I have to be angry about, your Majesty?” Katarina asked. She sounded innocent and genuinely bemused, but Riven knew better. Katarina wanted her to admit her wrongdoings, to hear her say it.

“I left.”

Katarina frowned. “Well, that’s what good soldiers do when duty calls, no?”

Riven simmered at the feigned ignorance in her tone but tried again. “I didn’t… keep my promise.”

“Oh?” Katarina spat in reply. “And what promise was that?”

“That I’d come home.”

Katarina fingered the knife on her belt. “Ah, well, the dead usually don’t.”

Riven stiffened, feeling like a child being interrogated by a parent who already knew that it wasn't the dog who had broken the vase.

“I didn’t die,” she began to explain but she was interrupted by Katarina who scoffed and gave her a quick study from head to toe.

“Clearly not.”

The two locked eyes in a silent stalemate, Katarina with one brow cocked as if the conversation was confusing and meant little—if not nothing—to her, and Riven with her lips pressed together in silent frustration.

“I came to apologize, Kat.” Riven sighed. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Don’t be.” Shifting her eyes away from the Grand General, Katarina stepped towards her front door.

Riven quickly moved aside and watched the assassin walk right past her as if she were nothing more than a ghost. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. To Katarina she was just that.

“My days of mourning are over,” Katarina said over her shoulder, hand resting on the half open door. No servant came out to greet her.

Riven’s heart soared as she allowed herself to believe that Katarina’s words implied a degree of forgiveness. Her relief was short lived, though, and the fluttering in her chest became an agonizing pounding of fists when she heard the words that followed.

“There is nothing to forgive, Grand General. Riven died ten years ago.”

“But I’m—”

“The Riven I knew and…” She paused, choosing her next words carefully, “ _Cared for_ … is dead. She died in Ionia.” Katarina turned to give her one last steely gaze before entering the mansion, leaving behind the unspoken words that hurt just as much as if they had been said.

_You are dead to me._

Riven swore she felt something inside of her shatter.

* * *

 

The ride home was long. There was nothing to do in the open but repeat the encounter in her mind, still reeling from what had been said. The wind blew roughly against her solid body, yet inside she was hollow.

It seemed to be punishing her, whispering quiet accusations as it breezed by her ears even once she reached the forest and was sheltered from the worst of it. The trees stood stiff and tall while its branches hovered threateningly over her. Rabbits stared from the edges of the improvised trail with wary, accusing eyes.

What was this feeling that overwhelmed her? Was it guilt? She’d never felt guilty of anything before. Was it shame? No, she didn’t know the meaning of it.

She was sorry she’d hurt Katarina, but she had her reasons for not returning. Was she angry at the assassin for refusing to listen? No, she didn’t deserve to be angry. Anger was all she’d harboured for the better part of ten years and she was tired of it. She wanted to feel again.

Happiness, excitement, passion, hope, and even fear were all things Commander Riven knew well. But Grand General Riven had forgotten all of those things. Grand General Riven only knew bitter loneliness.

Ah, perhaps it was sadness tearing her gut to pieces.

“One step at a time,” she mumbled. Only her cantering horse replied with a snort.

Once clear of the forest, she kicked her ride into a race up the paved mountain path.

When they got within sight of the stables, Riven was relieved to see that the stable boy was the only person around. She continued towards him at a trot and he had the reins in his hand before she even dismounted.

“Did you have a good ride, your Majesty?” he asked, petting the black horse affectionately as it breathed quickly for air.

Riven stared at the boy, surprised at his cheery disposition despite his job which, if she had to guess, also entailed shoveling horse shit in the middle of the night. He couldn’t have been any older than fourteen years old. Taking her silence as a command for respect, he quickly remembered his place and bowed his head.

“It wasn’t too terrible.” She gave him a small smile which he immediately mirrored brightly. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Marcus, your Majesty.”

“You’re good with horses, Marcus,” she told him. The name tasted bitter on her tongue.

“It’s my job, your Majesty.”

Riven didn’t know if she wanted to slap herself for the obvious statement or laugh at this child’s bluntness. She ended up doing the latter, and the light chuckle sounded foreign to her ears.

Why in Valoran she was talking to a child servant in the middle of the night at the stables was beyond her, but she was feeling less lonely. Besides, the longer she stayed outside, the more likely it was that those who waited up for her would give in and try their luck again for an audience tomorrow.

She frowned at the palace—the Immortal Bastion—where her councillors and all of High Command undoubtedly were waiting to play tug-of-war with her patience which was already dangerously worn.

Sitting on a nearby bench, she patiently watched Marcus unsaddle her new companion.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“He’s a she, your Majesty,” he replied, “And she doesn't have a name.”

“Oh.”

Marcus watered the mare and before long her breathing slowed to normal. "She was found wandering at the site of a battle and was badly injured. We're not sure if she's one of ours or Demacian cavalry. I guess it's hard to tell who's who in a war."

"Yes," Riven agreed. "It is."

She knew all too well of the confusion amidst the heart of battle. To hesitate was a death sentence. Once helmets were knocked off and shields lay splintered, there wasn’t much to go by but the bloodied indiscernible crests on their backs.

She had known her men and their faces well enough. Any good leader would, especially after years of training together, eating together, and living together.

When she looked into the eyes of her next kill and watched the life drain out of them, she had to believe that if it hadn’t been them, it would’ve been one of her men or her. So why did their faces still haunt her?

She carried the images with her like demons seared to the back of her memory, and after a decade of torment, she could no longer tell the face of her first kill from her last, her fallen allies from her victims.

In the end, they had all amounted to just one thing; arrows in a quiver to be used and discarded.

"You should name her, your Majesty!" Marcus suddenly exclaimed, breaking her out of her bitter reverie.

Riven blinked. "Me?"

He nodded. "She likes you."

Riven stood and stroked her mare's neck. For the first time she noticed the marks on her coal black horse. There were multiple light patches on her sides from where arrows had pierced her, as well as long, deep scars that were likely the works of swords or spears.

In a battle where no one had survived, this single horse had made it out alive. She had stood back up despite her injuries and turned her ears from the sweet lulling call of oblivion, just like Riven had. Like her, the mare had knocked on Death’s door and was turned away.

She should've died in that valley. That much she was certain of. But by the grace of whatever had been watching over her, she was granted time. It took her years to figure out what to do with said time, but she was certain of it now. She would not— _could not_ —rest until Noxus was reborn into the great empire it once was.

Not one born of sacrifice and murder, but of strength and unity.

And when her clock stops ticking, she'll return to that valley...

Perhaps the warhorse also had a higher calling; turned away by Death to fulfill some ulterior purpose. Perhaps she would somehow aid Riven in her quest to restore glory to the empire.

It was a strange thought, but one that made her smile.

"Valona," she finally said. _Belonging to the valley._

Marcus beamed. "That's a pretty name."

"She's a pretty horse."

Once Valona recovered, Marcus led her back to her stall and Riven followed.

"Do you ride, Marcus?” she asked him. It was a silly question, the boy _was_ a groom after all, but she couldn’t imagine such a small and lanky child atop a creature built almost entirely of muscle and speed like Valona.

Marcus shook his head. “I was only taught how to care for them. Is it hard?”

Riven thought back to when she'd first started training with mounts. She couldn’t walk properly for days after only a few hours in a saddle. At first she couldn’t wield a weapon and ride at the same time, so often times she had to pick herself up from the dirt and run after her horse, spitting expletives left and right. Her old captain had said that she rode like a sack of oats.

She considered her words, not wanting to discourage the boy should he one day learn but start off as roughly as she did. “Once you find your balance, no. My advice: don’t rush a horse up a hill and don’t race him down a slope and he will get you where you need to go just fine.”

Marcus, like the child he was, asked, “And if the way is flat?”

Riven smiled. “Then you ride like hell.”

* * *

 

She must’ve been at the stables for longer than she cared to notice since by the time she made her way to her private chambers, the only people still awake and moving around the palace were the servants.

Of course, there were guards posted throughout, and although she had removed more than half the guards from all the posts she deemed unnecessary, her council insisted that two would remain at her private apartment at all times.

Ironic, how the public display of _her_ power depended mostly on that of her ridiculous entourage of guards and elites. LeBlanc had once told her that power didn't come from brawn alone, and that sometimes simply the illusion of power was enough.

_Politics._

She dismissed their bows with a nod and strolled past the doors held open for her and into her quarters. Out of habit, she took a quick glance at her private armory to ensure that her runic blade was where she’d left it. It was.

Satisfied, she shoved open the door to her bedroom.

Half expecting LeBlanc to be there, but more than glad to see that she wasn’t, Riven allowed herself to fall ungraciously onto her sharply made bed, burying her face into her pillows and ignoring the pile of clean sleeping clothes that had been laid out for her.

She must’ve fallen into a dreamless sleep because when she opened her eyes, she found herself in the spacious bedroom under a blanket that had kept her warm from the night chill. Weird, she didn’t remember covering herself.

It was at least a few hours after sunrise judging by the angle the sunlight had warmed her face. Yawning, Riven rolled over onto her back and stretched, her stomach grumbling loudly in reminder that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast the morning before.

Half awake, her mind worked backwards to make sense of the events of the previous day. She purposely steered her thoughts away a certain encounter and somehow lulled herself back to sleep.

This time, she did dream.

She was travelling with Valona, riding through a forest similar to the patch she’d ridden through on her way to the Du Couteau mansion, when all of a sudden the horse reared in an angry start and tossed her from the saddle. Caught unaware, she landed ungraciously on the hard dirt. Riven tried to calm her down, but before she could grab the reins, Valona galloped off.

She chased after it at a hastened jog for what seemed like hours, calling the mare’s name and throwing a few curses in here and there, until her dream-throat went dry and her dream-legs started to ache.

Finally, she reached the forest clearing, and her dream turned into something of a nightmare.

She spotted Katarina, sitting atop Valona and looking not at all out of place with her regal posture and noblewoman’s clothes.

“Valona,” Riven called, snapping her fingers. “C’mere, girl.”

The mare paid her no attention and shifted on the spot, impatiently waiting for her rider to take her elsewhere while Katarina expertly kept her in place.

“She won’t come,” Katarina said dryly. “No matter how loud you shout, how often you plead, or how many tears you shed; she won’t come.”

Riven didn’t understand. “Why?” she asked. “Why are you taking her from me?”

Katarina’s face twisted in confusion. “I’m not. She _wants_ to leave you.”

“You’re lying! She wouldn’t just abandon me!” shouted Riven, unsure why she was getting so worked up over a horse when the woman she was supposed to care for was right in front her.

“She doesn’t love you anymore,” Katarina stated with conviction.

“That’s not true!”

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Katarina asked bitterly before gripping the reins tighter.

Valona was kicked into motion and Riven was caught between shouting for Katarina or her horse. The two whirled and closed the distance between them and the horizon so quickly that Riven was thrown from her dream in a panic as abruptly as she had been thrown from the mare’s back.

“Bad dream?” someone asked.

Riven nearly jumped out of her skin, snapping her attention in the direction LeBlanc spoke from to find the woman resting leisurely on the sofa in her sitting room through the wide open bedroom door.

She scowled. “You can see my dreams now?”

“No.” LeBlanc smiled. “You talk in your sleep.”

“I do?” Riven wondered how long she’d been doing so, as it was her first time being made aware of it. It must’ve started some time after the war. Surely Katarina would’ve mentioned it if she’d been doing it back when they were…

She shook the past from her thoughts just in time to hear a polite knock on her door.

LeBlanc elegantly swung her legs into a sitting position. “Eat first, then we’ll talk,” she ordered. Then she turned in the direction of the knock. “Come in,” she called in a voice that matched Riven’s pitch perfectly.

The door opened and a servant ambled in carrying a platter of food followed by a stone-faced sentry trailing along behind him.

“Lunch, your Majesty.”

Neither noticed LeBlanc, so she must’ve made herself visible only to Riven. Some days Riven wondered if the woman was even real or if she had just gone a bit mad. She noticed LeBlanc wink in her peripheral and sighed. It was going to be one of those days where LeBlanc will prove just how real she was.

“You know,” Riven huffed when the servants left, “if I can’t tell who can and can’t see you, or even what disguise you’re hiding behind when they _can_ see you, sooner or later they’re going to think I’m losing my mind.”

“Fret not, darling,” LeBlanc assured, joining her at the table where she inhaled her breakfast with as much etiquette as LeBlanc’s presence demanded and as little as her hunger could manage. “While the self-proclaimed strongest and most skilled of mages struggle with combinatorial magic, it is least of what I can do.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“Have my powers failed you before?” LeBlanc countered.

“No,” Riven mumbled between bites. _But they’ve never been used_ against _me before, either._

She was able to enjoy her lunch in companionable silence almost right up until the end but LeBlanc didn’t wait for her to finish before starting her interrogations.

“Did your little pleasure visit last night go well?” she asked, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Riven choked on her last bite, coughing a few more times than was necessary in order to give herself time to compose an answer. How careless of her to think, even for a second, that LeBlanc had been too busy to notice.

“It was hardly pleasurable,” she finally answered.

“Ah. She’ll come around soon enough.”

Riven narrowed her eyes, unsettled by the mage’s words and the devious smile that had yet to disappear. Answering would keep more of LeBlanc’s attention on Katarina than she would like, so she remained silent and let the matter lie.

Instead, she asked, “So what’s on my agenda for today?”

There was a sense of mutual understanding that _Riven’s_ agenda was actually _LeBlanc’s_ agenda, but every so often the mage allowed herself to be coaxed into giving Riven leeway in regards to some decision-making. After all, there was no better way to convince a woman into taking action than to let her believe she’d arrived at the decision on her own.

_Sometimes, the illusion of power is all you need._

“The city is buzzing with the rumour that our troops are coming home.”

“Good or bad?” Riven asked, making a mental note to be more attentive to public opinion and that her subjects extended outside the circle of her inner court.

“A bit of both. We’ll need to change that before you start recalling any units, so you’ll be making an announcement.”

Riven fought to keep her dismay from showing. She enjoyed public speaking as much as she did dancing. That is to say, not at all. Her speeches had been good enough to rally her men in battle, but she saw no reason to do any more beyond that. To masquerade her edict as anything less than a command with ceremony and discussion was tedious.

" _I'll_ be making an announcement, or _you_ will?" she asked, hoping for the latter case.

LeBlanc entertained the question at length. Finally, she said, "It appears that I would be the wiser choice. You've no time to waste rehearsing lines and it's clear which of us is more proficient with words.”

Riven nodded in gratitude, ignoring the insult. She cared naught for politics but did not neglect the fact that she owed much of her success to LeBlanc's love of the game and ability to play it well. As if it had a mind of its own, her hand reached across the space of the table to rest firmly on top of LeBlanc’s.

“Thank you.”

She suffered the scrutiny of the mage’s accusative eyes only for a brief moment before LeBlanc rewarded her with a mischievous knowing smile. Riven let her fingers be raised to LeBlanc’s soft lips, let them be kissed with a softness and chasteness that the woman rarely ever allowed her.

And for the first moment since waking, she found respite from her memories of a certain Du Couteau.


End file.
